


here is a memory (when you lost your way)

by deepandlovelydark



Category: MacGyver (TV 1985)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Gun Violence, Swearing, great game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-01-09 10:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12274137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepandlovelydark/pseuds/deepandlovelydark
Summary: Your name's MacGyver. You have a knife, a head wound, and a case of amnesia that's blocking everything except how to make explosives out of everyday household chemicals.When someone comes along and claims that you're one of the bad guys, you have to admit it makes sense.AU followup for "D.O.A. MacGyver".





	1. Opening Gambit

**Author's Note:**

> I'd not seen the episode in a while before writing this and forgot Mac's first encounter with Jules, after the bike scene; it doesn't make much sense even in the original episode, and it works even less well in this fic, so we're ignoring that. Otherwise we're following on from the scene in Carol's house, with one critical twist...

“For all we know, I could be a criminal.“

Days like these make perfectionism worthwhile, Lancer thinks. He had a perfectly solid, functional plan - allow Jules to go in and trash the place a bit, shoot Jules, use MacGyver as the fall boy for the bombing later - but he’s eavesdropping on the target just to be diligent, and that one line changes everything. 

If the man’s such an amnesiac that he can’t remember what his basic morality is, well, maybe he can be helped along in that belief. 

He goes and grabs Jules just before the action starts. "Change of plans. We're not killing MacGyver."

"We're not?" The other man looks disgusted.

Lancer ponders whether it's still worth killing Jules here and now, and decides it isn't. Too messy, too difficult to explain. It’ll take time to break their latest recruit into killing as an art form. 

"Get back to the camper and switch to plan B. You’ll have to finish the job solo, I’m going to need Tara tonight to roll out the red carpet. If we can get this man on our side, it’ll make the payout for our bombing look like pin money…”

**************

The part where he's called MacGyver sounds right. At least he has his name back.

All the rest makes him feel worse. 

“Criminals, freelancers, occasional CIA operatives,” Lancer says, handing him a cold beer out of the fridge. “Troubleshooters. I was surprised when you called us for backup. To tell you the truth, you’re known for being a loner.”

MacGyver takes a sip from the bottle, has to fight down an impulse to spit the mouthful out again. The stuff’s incredibly bitter - why would anyone drink this voluntarily?

But Lancer’s waving him over to the camper’s cosy table nook with an air of easy familiarity, as though they’ve done this before. That's a reassuring idea. Maybe it’s an acquired taste. 

“We’ve worked together a few times. Helped you get the Phoenix Foundation off your tail more than once - any chance you remember Thornton? Have a look.”

The reserved, not-giving-anything-away figure in the photograph doesn’t tell him anything. “No.”

“You’ll have to. Pete Thornton, ex-DXS agent and one of the wiliest old birds in the intelligence business. His speciality is brainwashing.” Lancer opens his own beer and drinks, with apparent enjoyment. “No ploy too devious. He’ll rely on any means, no matter how unscrupulous, to turn a man inside out until there’s nothing left but a shell bawling the praises of his own kidnappers.”

“I’ve lost my memory. Can’t remember a thing. You don’t think he got to me, do you?”

A thoughtful nod. “That could very well be the case. In which case, he’ll be trying to recapture you again.”

Lancer watches MacGyver’s expression subtly alter: a slight tightening about the mouth, a moment of smoldering anger in those calm brown eyes. He’d only been intending to make Thornton sound too scary to approach, but the man’s quick-witted. Enough to invent explanations that make more sense than humdrum truth. 

If he can control that wit, turn it to purpose, they’ll really have something. 

“They say that familiarity can help with amnesia, sometimes,” Tara says. She’s monitoring a scratchy radio, waggling the antenna back and forth. “Do you remember the address of your safehouse in Las Vegas? You never did tell us where it was.”

“No. No, I don’t.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your numbered Swiss bank account,” Lancer chuckles, then stops at the lack of response. “Have you?”

“None of this sounds at all familiar,” MacGyver says, stolidly. “I’ve got a knife and the clothes I’m wearing, and that’s it. Guess I’ll have to start from scratch.”

“Heyyyy. Hey hey hey, don’t think we’d do that to you,” Tara coos. She carries the radio over to the nook, slips her arm around Mac's shoulders in a comforting gesture. “This camper can carry four, no problem. Not much cash left in the kitty, but you’ll never have to go panhandling as long as we’re around.” The radio wheezes and gives up altogether; she shakes her head at it in despair. 

“Lemme see that.” MacGyver grabs the radio and rips off the exterior panel, working with near-desperate intensity. “I bet I know how to fix this, it’s probably just a loose connection-”

The radio crackles into perfect life again. “…a bombing near the Westside Cemetery, killing six officers at a military funeral today. The police investigation is ongoing…”

“Looks like you’re already earning your keep,” Lancer says warmly. 

Tara nods, cuddles up against him. 

MacGyver smiles and takes another sip of beer. Could be he’s imagining things, but it really does seem to taste better this time. 

**************

“Ex-military, like me,” Jules says. 

He’s practicing with his pistol in a lazy sort of way, allowing whole minutes to go by between shots. But hitting the paper plate he’s hung up for a target every time. 

MacGyver’s watching, and honing his SAK. If this is all he has to show for half a lifetime’s work, he’s going to take care of it. 

“But Lancer had me try out his gun this morning, and I’m a terrible shot. What makes you think I'm a vet?"

Jules snorts. “For one thing, because you told me.“

“Oh,” MacGyver says, looking a little sheepish. “Sorry. It’s hard to get used to other people knowing more about me than I do. Keep going.”

“You were drafted too. Into a damn stupid war, ordered by damn stupid idiots in Washington, who didn’t give a shit about how many kids they killed in Vietnam as long as they got to make their little speeches about how we’re fighting the brave fight against those scary Russian Commies. And what the hell happens? Half the country stays Communist anyway, we didn’t even make a difference over there.” He empties his gun in a rapid-fire burst, reloads quickly, and empties it all over again. “When I got back, that was it with me and the system, and I kick its teeth in whenever I get the chance. You told me you did pretty much the same thing.”

Makes sense. Makes a lot of sense. 

Without thinking much about it, MacGyver throws his knife at Jules’ target. It tears straight through the red X at the centre, lands quivering in the grass beneath. 

Jules looks at him with far more respect. “Hell. That was smooth.”

“It’s a weapon,” MacGyver says softly. “Guess I didn’t think of that.”

“Of course it’s a weapon. It’s a knife, you dumbass,” Jules says with affection. He retrieves the red SAK and tosses it back. “If you can hit the mark with that thing every time, no wonder you gave up on guns. Forget silencers, that is the definition of discreet.”

They experiment with a kitchen knife from the camper, then Jules’ military-issue bootknife. It goes quicker once he starts remembering the muscle movements, in a faint bubbling up of recall: years of practice, casually chucking his SAK at trees, fences, whatever, whenever he had a spare moment. How many knives did he get through that way? Dozens?

By the end of the day, he can hit Jules’s target dead on three times out of five, and gets pretty close the rest of the time. 

“No guns,” he tells Lancer. “I don’t think I need one anyway.”

Lancer looks less than happy. “Jules…”

Jules shrugs. “You heard the man. He doesn’t.”

**************

“I don’t feel right about this,” MacGyver says, jamming his hands into his pockets. “Taking handouts. It’s bad enough I’ve got to rely on you guys just for food and somewhere to sleep at night.”

“Mac, you’ve got to stop thinking that way,” Tara tells him, as they enter the shopping mall. “Call it an investment, if that makes you feel better. You’re one of the best in the business. Once you’ve got your head straight again, you’ll more than make this back for us.”

“Yeah, but in the meantime I’m just a deadweight.”

“And here I was hoping you’d have gotten over that. You'd think amnesia would wipe the slate clean.”

“It’s not total amnesia, I can still remember the chemistry I need. Political situations, all the tradecraft. Just not what I’ve been doing with it for the last twenty years.” Food court, candle store, pharmacy. Department store. He’s dreading this. “Gotten over what?

Tara grabs a cart and takes him firmly by the arm, so he can’t run off. “Every time we’ve met, you’ve always seemed so lonely. Most of us are in this trade, but it’s as if you never even heard of friendship. This is a second chance for you. For us,” she says. 

What an awful picture she’s painting. He thinks of the companionable dynamic they’ve built up in just a few days - arguing over pancake recipes with Jules, discussing their future plans with Lancer, showing Tara herself how to rewire ordinary transistor radios into rather less innocuous objects. Already it’s a bond he wouldn’t surrender easily. 

Then he considers what it’d be like trying to run from the Phoenix Foundation all alone, and finds himself shuddering. 

“Now if we don’t leave this store with at least two hundred dollars worth of purchases, I’ll have to tell Lancer you’ve been very uncooperative.”

“Oh, heaven forfend. Actually, this isn’t bad.” He checks the price tag on a nice motorcycle jacket: expensive, but gorgeous. “How about this?”

“Leather? Weren’t you saying you thought you might be vegan?”

“Forget that,” MacGyver says with satisfaction. “This is going to look terrific on me, look.” He demonstrates. 

“Oh, wow, you weren’t kidding,” Tara says in admiration. She nestles up close, gives him a quick kiss. 

“First time,” she whispers. “For luck.”

Maybe she’s right. 

Maybe this whole amnesia business isn’t as scary as he first thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I generally think that people saying "I have written a Dark and Angsty Fic" looks a little silly. And in fact, the rest of the fic isn't particularly angsty. It does, however, get pretty dark, so I'm putting a health warning here: this is canon divergence with a vengeance. 
> 
> Good luck, and good night.


	2. Episodic Memory

“It’s about time we picked our next job,” Lancer begins. His protege is as recovered as he’ll ever be. They have work to do. 

“This was a waste of time for you guys,” MacGyver says, his face flushing with shame. “I’m not going to be any good.”

Jules looks unimpressed by the pronouncement. “You have a better eye for marksmanship than I do, you fixed the toaster with a paper clip, and what you don’t know about chemistry, write on a bullet and I’ll shoot it. Short of sitting in the corner like a sack of potatoes all mission, I don’t see how you can miss being some help.”

“I mean it. Maybe the amnesia’s broken my nerve or something, but I can’t face killing anyone. Or being on a team with anybody who does. And I know you’ll all think that’s useless.”

Lancer very nearly tells Jules to just go ahead and shoot him right there. 

“Maybe we don’t have to start with an assassination,” Tara offers. “We can ease you back into the game, take it slow at first.”

The good thing about his team is that they’re smart enough to make plays without prompting. The bad thing is, sometimes they start mistaking that permission for real power. 

Still, there’s a few more-or-less innocuous missions he’s been offered. That might help MacGyver to get used to working with others - to all accounts, the man was a deep-seated loner. Training him into a team mentality, if it works, will well reward the effort. 

If not, they can always ransom him to the Phoenix Foundation. Pete Thornton’s been offering a mind-bubbling price to get his agent back. 

“All right,” Lancer agrees. “Word on the grapevine says the Russians will pay big bucks to anyone who can tie the San Marcos arms sales into Iran-Contra. Not for legal purposes, just so they can embarrass the Reagan administration with an unofficial leak.”

“Isn’t it true, though?” Tara points out. “That piece of scuttlebutt’s been making the rounds for a year, at least.”

“Right. The only problem, aside from the merely technical issue of breaking into the NSC archive without all of us ending up in prison, is that it means letting down the home side. Is that a problem for Mr Morality here?“

MacGyver shrugs. “Suits me. Truth’s truth.”

*********************

The Washington Post, acting on an anonymous tip that confirms several months of effort by a patient Latin American correspondent, runs a front-page story about the CIA’s involvement in selling arms to San Marcos. Everyone named issues hasty denials. 

Of those who aren’t named, several work at the Phoenix Foundation. All take early retirement within the week. 

A large sum, denominated in dollars (Russians pay very well for communists), makes its way to an unknown Swiss bank account. 

Lancer is sufficiently pleased at this conflation of events to let MacGyver have that week in Minnesota he’s been begging for. 

*********************

A glance at the caller ID makes Pete lunge for his phone. There’s only one number likely to be calling from this particular area code, and this one he’s memorised anyway. 

“Hello there? This is Harry Jackson. You’re that Pete Thornton fella, said you wanted me to call next time I saw Bud?”

“Yes, yes. You’ve seen MacGyver?”

“Surely did. Went out for a long fishing trip, cooked ourselves a fine old mess of trout. Glad to see he’s given up on that catch and release nonsense.”

“Does he still have amnesia? Does he remember me? The Phoenix Foundation?”

“Hold your horses! Remember, you said this would be a voluntary call. Not any kind of government interrogation.”

Pete bites his tongue before he loses his temper. “Right. Sorry. But has he recovered?”

“Seems not. Says it comes and goes a little, but he had a doctor check him out and he’s pretty sure by now it’s a permanent condition. I got to tell him a few stories for the first time all over again.” A chuckle. “Though he still remembers every scrap of Reader’s Digest piffle I ever quoted at him as a kid. Half of ‘em I didn’t even remember myself.”

The Phoenix doctors would be better-equipped to make a diagnosis, Pete’s sure. If they could get hold of him to do a diagnosis. “And he’s still with Lancer and his henchmen?”

“Never saw any sign of this Lancer fellow. Now if you mean Jules and Tara, yes, they were pretty polite. Kept a nice steady watch from the shoreline the whole time, just in case anybody unfriendly showed up. The way that man handles a gun, I can think of a time or two in Alaska I’d have liked him at my back. And the lady’s as smart as she is pretty. Looks like the three of them are in it for the long haul, I’d say.”

“Those people are wanted criminals. They’re not like Mac at all.”

“Eh, well, if you say so. He didn’t seem to draw the distinction. Course, he also told me there’s warrants out for all of them now.”

“I can get a pardon for MacGyver, I told you that. The Phoenix Foundation looks after its operatives.”

“Mmm-hmm.” There’s a creak in the background, as though Harry’s comfortably leaning his chair back; he sounds contented enough. “You know, first time I saw Mac after he joined that DXS of yours, he was spouting me no end of pap. How you’d recruited him for freedom and peace and a lot more propaganda claptrap. Way he sounded this time, talking about how they pick their own fights and don’t do a damn thing unless they know who they’re doing it for and why, now that was a lot more like the independent, free-thinking youngster I remember. No, that foundation is just going to have to muddle along without him.”

“But can’t you tell him I have his best interests at heart? I mean, you trust me. You said you’d call me, and you have.”

Harry Jackson laughs. “Think I’d be naive enough to turn in my own grandson? Mac and his friends left town three weeks ago. And I warned them particularly not to come back unless they were looking for an all-expenses-paid trip to prison.”

The conversation goes on a little longer, but Pete’s not really listening after that. 

*********************

“So we’ve done three jobs just the way you wanted, without anyone dying,” Lancer says. “Don’t you think you’re ready to tackle the heavier stuff now?”

“Can’t say I do,” MacGyver says blankly. “Look, this is working, isn’t it? There’s so much freelancing going around these days, we don’t have to take the dirty jobs. And you know I’m pretty good at thinking my way out of emergencies.” 

He returns to the dishwasher repairs, as though that’s the end of the discussion. (The man’s already rewired half the camper to run more efficiently. Very nice and all, but he hasn’t invested all this time and patience just to get a free handyman.)

But it’s still the famous MacGyver, and the man does have to be treated with kid gloves. “That’s a pretty selfish perspective. What about what Jules thinks? Or Tara?”

“Hey, maybe I’d just as soon not shoot someone every time I stick my head out of the camper,” Jules says. “Even before he showed up, Lancer, I told you it was getting too much like being back in uniform. No harm doing it his way for a little while.”

Tara doesn’t even look up from her copy of “Popular Mechanics”. “I’m the tech, not a soldier. People, I am staying out of this one.” 

Lancer doesn’t approve. His team may not have noticed yet, but they’re starting to defer to MacGyver, both at home and in the field. Too much of this and they’ll start wondering who’s leader here. 

Enough pussyfooting, he decides. Time to make his protege kill someone; after MacGyver’s done it once, more will follow easily. Then they can get back to the assassin business, and that’s where he really excels. Maybe he can apply for HIT again, once he’s managed a few more high-profile kills. 

They even have the perfect target lined up. 

*********************

Pete’s working late that night; catching up on some of the regular work he’s been neglecting while following up hints about MacGyver. The latest reliable report had the camper in San Francisco. 

He’s hoping that means MacGyver is back in California. Maybe even that the troubleshooter’s trying to come home.

And when he hears the very distinctive snick of an SAK in his office lock, he could practically sing out loud for sheer relief. 

“Mac!” 

“Peter Thornton,” MacGyver says.

Which is more than enough to tell Pete that all’s not well. The gun in Mac’s hand seems almost superfluous to requirements. 

“Very shoddy security,” Lancer says, pulling the door to behind them. “He could and did elaborate on all the ways you might improve it, but unfortunately you won’t be around long enough to hear the full list. Since you’ll be dead shortly. Isn’t that right, MacGyver.”

MacGyver sighs, tosses the gun up in the air and catches it at a careless angle. 

“No. Look, I said I’d try, but I also warned you that I might not be able to do it. Lancer, I can’t. Don’t ask me.”

“You have to kill him,” Lancer says. “This is your profession, this is who you are now, and this is all you have left. The man here is the one who reduced you to this. You have no choice, understand?”

“Oh, I understand,” MacGyver says, in his oh-so-calm Midwestern drawl. He pulls the trigger. 

Despite years of training and far too much experience of death, Pete can’t stop a sharp gasp. Lancer shudders and slides along the wall down to the floor, dead before he stops moving. 

“I remembered something,” Mac says, looking at the weapon without much regret. 

“What?” 

“From college. Debate about where a society draws the limits of toleration. We figured,” MacGyver says, as casually as he used to talk about chemistry or hockey, “that it’s about the point where the intolerant say nobody else is allowed to live and let live. And I think he crossed that line quite a while ago. Tell me something. Lancer said that you’d brainwashed me into a case of amnesia, but I’ve been checking on you and that doesn’t sound like your style. Was it?”

“It wasn’t, I promise,” Pete breathes. “We were friends, MacGyver. I’d never have done that to you. As far as we could work out from your trail afterwards, it was just a stupid accident caused by the head trauma.”

“Hmm. Not sure I believe you about the friends part,” MacGyver says, but his tone is relaxed and a little teasing. Just the same voice he remembers, from friendly past arguments. 

Pete relaxes. It’s going to be all right now. 

“Now pick up that chair.”

“Sorry, you want me to do what?”

“Just what I said,” Mac says, gesturing with the gun. “Get up out of your chair and pick it up.”

Pete. blinking, does. 

“Now throw it at the window, hard as you can.”

“What- hey, this is my office!”

“Yeah, and I’m already leaving it with one more corpse than I wanted. I’d rather not make it two, huh?”

Pete obediently makes the throw; it smashes the window into fragments. MacGyver produces a grappling hook out of nowhere, gives him a final unreadable look, and tosses over the gun, before he starts rappeling downwards. There’s a moment, as Pete’s juggling the still-warm weapon, that he’s in a perfect position to shoot Mac in the head. 

He doesn’t, of course. Later on, as the Phoenix board sorts through the chaos, everyone’s a little disappointed that he’s lost their rogue agent again. But they’re much more pleased that he’s killed off Lancer. A thorn in the side of every intelligence organisation extant. 

Pete takes the blame/praise almost gratefully. One less charge for his friend to face, later. 

Anyway, it’s not as if anyone would believe Mac’s capable of murder. 

*********************

Tara comes in with dinner (her turn to pick up the takeout for their Friday pizza night). “People. Why are we watching the A-Team?”

“He likes it,” MacGyver and Jules say simultaneously. Each looks mildly embarrassed, though not enough to turn it off. 

“All right, either of you want to explain why the other’s watching it?”

“Obviously it’s the guns,” Jules says. “Nobody on this show ever hits a damn thing. It’s dreamworld for pacifist over here.”

“Jules just wishes intelligence work was this easy,” MacGyver comments. “Over and done in forty-five minutes, that’s a lot more appealing than spending weeks on your legwork. Besides, he likes watching Mr T.”

“The guy’s all right. But if you ever ask me to say that I pity anything, I will have to hurt you,” Jules warns. “Got my double-meat, Tara?”

“Yeah. Here’s the everything veggie for you, Mac, so this one must be my pepperoni.” 

They sit and watch the episode companionably. George Peppard makes a dramatic speech; terrible fates befall Dirk Benedict. They steal slices from each other’s pizzas. Tara admits that the show’s enjoyable, even if it is stupid. Mac makes fun of everything about Murdock, up to and including his name. 

“I mean, c’mon. How’s an idiot like that supposed to escape from all those hospitals and prisons?” he asks, as the credits roll and Miami Vice begins. 

“Obviously the idiocy is an asset. Which explains your great track record in that regard,” Jules says. “Either of you want more beer while I’m getting a refill?”

“Make it two.”

“Can you get that Bloody Mary mix I made up? The vodka’s already in there,” MacGyver calls. “Too bad I can’t remember any cocktail recipes,” he adds to Tara. “I bet I invented some real good ones.” 

“I bet you did. But now the show’s over, we really have to get down to business. Now that Lancer’s dead, what are we going to do next?”

“Keep on playing the game, what else?” Jules says, handing over their drinks. “Can’t say as I have any other plans I was dying to get to.”

Tara nods. “I had plans once. Emphasis on had. Not much use enrolling in Western Tech’s doctoral programme now, when I’ll be arrested the first day I show up for class.”

Mac’s expression twitches into a smile. “And we do already have the van…”

*********************

In later years, Pete Thornton’s never able to recall the next few weeks with any clarity. They don’t matter much anyway. It’s over. Mac’s gone for good. There’s nothing more to do. 

Or rather, only one thing more he could do. It means torpedoing his career, sacrificing the loyalty to his country that’s guided his whole life. It means betraying the Phoenix Foundation. 

But it's the only way left for him to help his friend. He gets on the phone to Washington. 

"Hello? Yes, Pete Thornton. Get this perfectly clear, I'm taking full charge of the MacGyver case from here on out. I don’t want anyone so much as sneezing near that camper without my personal say-so, understand?”

*********************

_one year later_

“Think we cut it a little too fine this time,” Jules grunts, loading the last of the ammunition into his gun. “These photopolymer blueprints aren’t going to do us much good in prison, are they?”

“Never over till it’s over,” MacGyver says cheerfully, as he wedges the rooftop access door shut. “We only need a couple more minutes-“

Jules grabs him by the collar and shoves him down behind an air conditioning duct, just before the shooting starts; the door gets blown off its hinges. 

“MacGyver!” Pete Thornton’s familiar baritone resounds impressively, as always. “We’ve got you this time!”

He emerges onto the roof just as Tara’s stealth helicopter shows up. She grins, waves them on board with seconds to spare; the shooting during their getaway is a bit desultory and ineffective on both sides.

“God, I hate heights,” Mac says, closing his eyes as they fly off. “Thanks for not killing anyone, Jules.”

“Hey, you’re better at this gig than Lancer ever was, you can set the ground rules. And I’d never kill that Thornton character on purpose anyway. I swear, sometimes it’s like he doesn’t even want to catch us.”

“Got a point there.”

Funny look Thornton had, back on that roof. Not anger, or upset. Almost…satisfaction. The thought stirs some submerged memory - he reaches for it, but it fades away. Never mind. He’s long since come to terms with the fact that he’ll never be quite whole again. 

MacGyver opens his eyes again. “Now that we have the prints, where do we want to peddle them?”

“Somewhere with tropical coastline,” Tara says immediately. “And don’t say the Middle East, I want there to be some decent liquor on those beaches.”

“Are you ever going to give a fuck about ideology?” Jules asks. “I’d say San Marcos. They can use a little live material these days, it’ll give their intelligence agency a leg up now their civil war is finally over.”

“People,” Mac intercedes. “San Marcos has beaches. We can all be happy.”

So he isn’t whole; plenty of others in this business aren’t either, and at least he’s landed on his feet. Better to live in the present. 

And right now?

His team’s got work to do.


	3. Chapter 3

"Mac the knife," Murdoc says. Rolling the phrase about his tongue, trying out the rhythm.

"Can't stand nicknames," MacGyver tells him. Not too harshly: this assassin has him distinctly curious. "Given the memory thing, I like to hang on to what I've got left."

"You're still so open. So trusting. Though, I can think of a time when you would have found something more to complain about than a borrowed sobriquet," Murdoc says.

"Oh?"

"You know," Murdoc says, almost in disgust. He kicks the trussed-up figure lying between them. "Something about 'my goodness, Murdoc, what a terrible thing it is you're doing-' that sort of complaint. It takes all the fun out of it when you're just going along."

"I'm mostly just watching your technique. Too show-offey, if you ask me."

"Please," the victim implores.

"Oh, you shut up or I'll trot out the sulfuric acid. I might have promised not to kill you, but I fancy even you might find piloting a trifle difficult when you're stone cold blind."

Jack sets up an instant howl; a little rage in the mix, but mostly horror and undignified terror, in the growing realisation that nobody's coming for him. MacGyver studies the man in unabashed fascination, hunting for the familiar. Anything in those stocky shoulders, those oil-stained hands, to hint at a shared history?

Nothing. An utter stranger.

Murdoc observes what he's doing, offers up a knowing smile. It's sweet, and sincere, and entirely focused on him- which means that silently approaching Jules has the chance to deck him. The assassin crumples, hard.

"Nice going," Jules says, kneeling down to check his work. "Keeping that maniac distracted until we could move in."

An unaccustomed honesty almost bubbles out of him; but MacGyver refrains. Jules and Tara are practical people who kill from need, not desire. Normally that's how he operates, too.

But, damn. The way that Murdoc had looked at him…well. Well. Gets his mind wandering to all sorts of places it oughn't to go, starts him wondering what he might be missing out. How a real assassin operates.

"I wonder if he was telling the truth," MacGyver says, slow and thoughtful. "If we did have something together, before."

"The way you're acting right now," Jack mutters unsteadily, "maybe you did. How is this you? Did I ever even know you, or were you faking it the whole time?"

"I told him the truth. I still don't recognise either of you."

"Maybe you don't, but the Mac I knew wouldn't have acted the way you did," Jack says, holding out his hands. Tara cuts the cabling with a couple of sharp cuts; he winces and starts rubbing the life back into his wrists. "He'd have intervened right off, no question. Instead of standing around swapping shop talk, while somebody got tortured!"

"That guy, the one you knew...you might as well call him dead," MacGyver says, after a moment. "For practical purposes. Anything else?"

"Yeah. Can I go home now?"

***************

Murdoc studies the caravan through half-closed eyes, cursing his lack of nerve. Poorly-decorated, with those dreadful curtains and some paint-by-numbers landscapes that can only be described as lamentable. Tacky. Chintzy, that's what it is.

He should have seen it through. He should have gone to work the moment that Nicholas brought him in to say that his most notorious assignment was cancelled, what with MacGyver going off Phoenix's books. Instead he'd waffled. Wandered off to tidy up small loose ends here and there, accepting penny-ante European assignments, anything or everything so long as it didn't require confronting his former foe.

Too afraid, to see MacGyver again: lest he see those steady brown eyes and find them dulled by the accident, uncertain, bemused. There's the stuff of nightmares; to look for his inestimably gifted opponent, and find only a placid bovine stare.

And while he'd been agonising and hedging, MacGyver has quietly built up a reputation just as meticulous and shining as ever his former career had been. He ponders Jules and Tara, considering how many ways he could kill them right this minute. (A lot.)

Not that it'd do very much good, at this point. A once in a lifetime opportunity, and he's squandered it.

Unless he's very clever, anyway…

***************

"There's a rest stop coming up ahead," Tara calls from the driver's seat. "Anyone want to take a break there, maybe get a bite to eat?"

"No time," MacGyver responds, quickly. "Whatever this thing Murdoc was hinting about demonstrating to me, in LA- I want to know what's going on with that. As fast as possible."

"Same here," Jules says, his dark eyes resting on MacGyver's for a moment. The sensation is steadying, reassuring in its normalcy. Their gunner keeps him and Tara grounded when they start getting caught up in unnecessary frivolities, hacking the system just for the sake of it. He can trust his friend to stop him if he's going too far.

(Probably.)

Jack says nothing, though his belly moans with sudden appetite. Just curls up tighter in the back seat, mistrustful and keen-eyed. There's a different note in his expression now, a defensiveness that's hauntingly familiar.

Oh, well, there's no reason not to try to be friendly. "So we used to work together, sometimes?"

"Mmm. Yeah."

"I take it you're the terse type."

"Not usually," Jack says, very mild and very flat. "That was your job, that and actually getting us out of messes. While I'd go ahead and be the life of the party, your big shiny distraction with bells on."

"Nobody's stopping you."

"Give a guy a break," Jack whines. "I get kidnapped, thrown in a car trunk, tortured-"

"Murdoc didn't even hurt you that much," MacGyver says, almost angrily; because he can see where this sentence is going, and it is not going to do him any credit. "More bark than bite, from what I saw."

"No, he said he'd leave me for you. And I said that was the craziest kind of nonsense I'd ever heard, that you'd ever do a thing like that to anybody. Guess I was wrong."

"He wouldn't," Jules advises. "Trust me. Unless you count hockey statistics, anyway."

That gets a wan smile out of the pilot, and MacGyver abruptly recollects: the night of the Stanley Cup final. Some godsforsaken backwater in Georgia or Florida or somewhere.

"Place like this, the only way you'll get anybody to listen to you ramble on about your precious Calgary Flames is if you pay them," Tara had joked, sniggering; and because nobody was tailing them and he was just a little bit drunk on nostalgia and sentiment and martinis, he'd gone out and found himself a streetwalker. The look on her face when he'd explained he just wanted her to watch the game with him, all bewilderment and impatient anger and an imperceptible measure of relief, that's Jack Dalton's expression now.

It crosses his mind that that is not the kind of way his former best friend should look; though for the life of him, he can't tell if that's old memories or a con artist's tongue or what's left of his conscience telling him that.

"I'm gonna go take over at the wheel, let Tara catch up on her sleep," MacGyver says.

"Two hours early? You're sure you don't mind?" she asks.

"No."

He can feel the tension go out of the room as he says it, listens with something approaching relief to the small, domestic sounds behind him. Whirr of a faucet, clatter of plates. Low conversation about their everyday lives (or the camping-and-endless-road-trip half of it, at least).

It's not much for him to do. Hardly anything, in fact.

Stops him having to look at Dalton for the rest of the night, though.

***************

They make the California border before stopping; MacGyver hits the bunk with reluctance, swearing to himself he'll wake up the moment a door opens or a word is spoken. He does.

"Hey. Say the word, and I'll get you out of here, I can promise you that. That Murdoc guy's definitely got his mind elsewhere, and I can make it square with MacGyver. We go back some." Jules, along with the clink of bottles against table. Mac mentally tabulates the beer stock and reminds himself to stock up again next time they get the opportunity.

"So do I," the pilot remarks, and MacGyver resists the impulse to frown, holding himself in stillness. Is that humour in the guy's tone? "Case of bad karma- it wasn't so much a friendship, more a series of 911 calls. I used to get into no end of wacky situations, and he'd be there for me. Every time. I figure returning the favour is the least I can do."

"He's not the guy you remember," Jules says, harshly, the way he does when he gets protective without wanting to. "You are going to get yourself hurt."

"Then I get my head kicked in or whatever. So what? It's my life to ruin."

"You sound like my sister. Loved a guy who kept beating her up, I told her to get out again and again- you know where she is now?"

"Where?"

"Safe and sound and far away," Jules says, lightly. "Happy ending after all. It's not too late for you to have one, too."

A long pause this time, broken only by Tara's fitful snores; Murdoc's soft breathing isn't even audible under that racket.

"Not without my amigo, it wouldn't be. Look. I gotta see this through, so telling me to back off isn't gonna work- and you know what? The more you keep trying to persuade me to stay safe, the more I know he's still the same guy at heart," Jack says. "Otherwise, he wouldn't insist on hanging around people like you."

"Now you're just reading into this situation what you want to see."

"I know."

Silence. A loud slurp, a belch.

"Say. Got any more of these?"


	4. Chapter 4

"What's the matter, Jack? I thought you liked planes."

"Flying them, sure!" He strains, hopelessly. Anybody else trying to tie him to an aircraft propellor, there'd have to be a little wiggle room, but of course the Boy Scout knows his knots better than that…"Mac, c'mon!"

"Oh, quit calling me Mac already, you know how much I hate that." MacGyver adjusts a final strap and stands back to give him the full benefit of a bared, toothy grin. Perfect match for the Englishman at his side. "You always were such a pain, you know that? Never would leave me alone, always turning my life upside-down- Murdoc, don't you think it's time I got some of my own back?"

"Oh, undoubtedly," Murdoc says, giving the propellor a hefty shove (Jack's flight cap promptly falls off into a mud puddle; he can't help sparing it a mournful glance). "You might even say, turnabout is fair play."

Hard to say whether the look MacGyver is throwing Murdoc is amused or jaundiced; that kind of nuance being hard to distinguish wrong way up. "Look, are you guys going to leave me hanging around all day, or what?"

MacGyver groans. "That's it. That is officially it. No more terrible jokes, ever- Murdoc, do you want to switch the engine on, or shall I?"

"Oh. You have the honour by all means, my pussycat," Murdoc purrs. He hands over a flashing piece of equipment, embedded with a glowing red button; Mac presses it with maniacal glee.

There's just time for Jack to bite down on his lip and promise himself he won't scream, before everything starts spinning insanely fast: his circulation failing against the centrifugal forces, his head exploding with vertigo-

he comes to with blood in his mouth and a cold sweat running down his back, finds he's crushing his flight cap into shapelessness. Keeps a tight grip on it for the next few minutes, while he listens and assures himself that nobody else is awake. They're all snoring. Clunk of the ice maker, the sound of cars on the nearby highway; nobody else has noticed anything wrong. Not getting caught in a vulnerable moment is itself a huge relief.

Old instincts die hard.  _I wish Mike was here._

Three o'clock in the morning. He ought to go back to sleep, needs to grab what rest he can. When he's unwound enough to stop feeling like he might die any second.

Only- Murdoc's mere inches away from him, lurking in the bottom bunk. Who's to say the assassin won't stretch out and shove a knife through the flimsy canvas that separates them, just as part of his morning wake-up? And as for MacGyver…Mac's sprawled over the camper's tiny sofa, and Jack swallows hard at the familiar sight. Of all the habits to retain!

Still slicks back that ridiculous mullet, still grabs the couch whenever he has the slightest excuse not to sleep in his own bed (the bunk Jack's in now, in fact.) But murder, arrest warrants, playing footsies with Murdoc…there is no point hoping that the guy's still his friend. Under the circumstances, that might be a lethal mistake.

But he's exhausted, and he needs comfort before he lets himself drop off again; so Jack starts soothing himself to sleep with lies. It'll be a fake mission, a conspiracy. A put-on job. An April Fool's joke, even, and at the end of it there'll be Mac again, wry and sincere and back to normal again. Why shouldn't it happen like that? Bad things aren't supposed to happen to heroes. Not permanently. Everything will turn out okay in the end.

Then one little thought pops into his head, just as he's beginning to doze.  _But you're not a hero._

Jack spends the rest of the night bolt awake and watchful.

XXXXXXXXXXX

"Give me all the details," MacGyver says to Murdoc, as he cuts the camper's engine. "We've got about ten minutes to kill before we go in, I'd like to hear you talk about us."

Murdoc is torn. Rich fascination, at MacGyver's assertiveness. Annoyance, at the sheer banality for which that assertiveness is being deployed. "We could discuss that just as well en route, you know. I don't see why we're wasting time here."

"Uh-uh. It's Sunday, Sunday is French toast day, we always stop over at a diner for breakfast. C'mon, don't you have any rituals in your life like that?"

"Ah. I like to take photographs of my victims before I kill them."

"Besides work, you idiot," MacGyver says, tossing off the insult with casual lack of thought; and Murdoc's hatred of the Jules-Tara pair sharpens a little more. He'd always admired MacGyver's refusal to stoop to the standard lexicon of American insults, but clearly, amnesia and bad partners have washed away that decorum. Pity.

"Oh, well, if you mean on my own time…I did have a rather peculiar habit," Murdoc says, very softly. "A secret that nobody else was allowed to know. Whenever I'd been tasked with killing you, and failed, and I do have to admit I failed rather often, we used to meet for dinner the night after."

He holds his palm out, open and unthreatening, and privately thrills as MacGyver strokes it with curious longing. The troubleshooter always was laughably trusting. Easily manipulated, too: the man wants his past back so badly, wants the years of life he's been cheated of. Eager to hear about the unspoken times, the huge swathes of his existence gone astray.

A deliciously dangerous game. If MacGyver should remember the truth…

"You were a do-gooder then, but of course that isn't an issue now. Perhaps you'd care to join me for real, this time?"

MacGyver draws back, studies him with an infuriatingly familiar expression (now, why couldn't he have lost that air of unimpressed Midwestern detachment?). "I might listen. Not now, though. Not until after whatever this job is in LA you keep hinting about- and certainly not without talking to Jules and Tara first. We all promised each other that, you know. Not to go high-tailing after other offers, without having a round-table discussion first."

One breath. The slightest thought of short-circuiting that entire absurd circus, just slaughtering the RV's entire complement and riding off with his troubleshooter into a California sunset.

Next breath, he doesn't get at all; MacGyver's twisted his arm round and slammed him against the cab door. Knife in hand, knee in a distinctly uncomfortable position.

"You just try that," MacGyver says, very evenly. "Try and see how far you get. Because I promise, whatever you do, it'll hurt you more."

"Since when," Murdoc asks, adjusting his rumpled collar with all the panache he can muster, "have you been so well-equipped to assess my state of mind?"

"Since I started hanging out with genuinely competent assassins, I guess."

He smiles then, mixture of his own wry humour with a dash of worldly-wise flair; and Murdoc wants him more badly than ever.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Tara sits down in the diner booth, resigned. She likes the scope-out reccy, likes having a few minutes to herself. There's a sort of game she can play at these times, pretending that she's quite what she appears to be- a young, innocent woman, alone, maybe even vulnerable- before her partners show up. Change of pace if nothing else.

But Jack has invited himself along, and fobbing him off would make more of a scene than is worth the effort.

"I'm not in the mood for a ladykiller," she warns. "So don't bother trying."

"Fallen victim to Mac's charms, huh?" Jack asks, with a roguish amusement that almost makes her regret snapping at him. "He always was pretty good at that."

"Not necessarily. We like to keep people guessing."

"Oh? C'mon, there's only so many combinations. You and Jules, you and Mac, Mac and Jules-" Jack pauses to ponder that one, briefly. "Or all three of you together. I'm rooting for that one, personally. Otherwise the third wheel would have to be sorta miserable."

"Or possibly, none of the above. Did that occur to you?"

"No," Jack says, in what is either genuine amazement or an excellent simulation of same (what's that eye twitch he's got? Very distracting). "I mean, three hot road-trippers all sleeping in the same RV? Don't tell me there's no shtupping going on there, it'd be such a waste."

"To think that MacGyver used to be friends with you. Obviously he's become more of a gentleman since getting clonked on the head."

Jack shrugs. Waves at MacGyver, as the other three enter the diner; allows his face to fall when they walk past and sit all the way across the room.

"I hate babysitting duty," Tara says casually, "but unfortunately, it's my turn for it. Count yourself lucky to be here, because normally we lock guests in the RV during brunch."

"But Mac said I deserved better?" Jack asks, very hopeful.

"No. Murdoc said you were an unpredictable bag of tricks who might escape and trash the place, so we took him at his word."

"At least I don't go around blowing up unsuspecting taxis," Jack mutters, in what is clearly meant to be a "tell-me-more" moment. She ignores him in favour of catching the waitress's eye, to order her French toast; Jack frowns at the menu.

"Who's paying for this? Cos I wasn't carrying my wallet when Murdoc snatched me."

He's twitching again. Weird. "We'll send the bill to HIT. Given that we'd be halfway to Albuquerque by now if Murdoc hadn't latched onto us, it's the least they can do."

The trouble goes out of his face; he orders an extravagantly hefty breakfast and winks at the waitress. Tacky, but effective: they get their coffee in surprisingly short order.

"Lemme know something," Jack asks, dumping in sugar and cream with abandon. "Is he happy? Mac, I mean."

Unbidden, a montage of images flash before her eyes- the boys asleep and sunbathing on an Oregon beach, the three of them silently padding away from their captors down a Louisiana bayou, MacGyver's completely inexplicable fondness for photographing duck statues. "We don't really give ourselves time to worry about that kind of thing. We just keep busy."

"If I know Mac, that's his idea of happy," Jack says, gulping down his coffee ravenously and wiping his mustache. "Okay, that's a relief. I've been worrying about that."

"But not worried enough to see how he's getting on?" She and Jules have privately talked about it, whether somebody would come one day - it hadn't seemed possible that anybody as winning as MacGyver could have just stepped out of his prior life and into theirs without anybody coming looking. And they'd been right.

"Phoenix sent the word out to leave him alone. Pete Thornton always was protective of his agents." A sly smile crosses the pilot's face. "Still is, from what I hear."

"He's devoted months, men, resources, and considerable energy to putting us away for good." But his words have tickled that unspoken suspicion, that there's something not perfectly kosher about Thornton's attempts to nab them.

"Sure he has- I'm sure he has," Jack says, hastily. "I mean, there didn't seem much point in me chasing after a guy who had no idea who I was. But I always did wish him the best, believe me. And this life, chasing across the US and picking up intelligence work when he has the chance, that sounds like what the kid I grew up with would like. Thanks for looking after him."

That one is sincere. "Our pleasure," Tara says, and finds she means it too.

"And just in case you ever get into a real tight spot." He flips the coffee cup over, then back again, extracts a slightly damp business card and hands it to her. Tara rolls her eyes at the theatricals. "Dalton's Fly-by-Night, I run a plane charter business. But for Mac, I'll give you guys a discount."

"Oh? How much is sentiment worth?"

"Ten percent off," Jack says promptly, and tucks into his bacon without missing a beat.


	5. Chapter 5

"The way it always should have been, MacGyver."

He wakes up instantly, sees Murdoc leaning over him with lusty enthusiasm (what flavour, or is it all the same to this assassin?) Sees that they're alone, isolated. He's not sure if he's glad the others are out of it, or fearful that they're gone.

"And as I'm challenging, you may pick the weapon. Guns? Knives? Hockey sticks? All one to me, I'll promise you that."

"I'm starting to remember something," he says slowly. "You made a habit of this, don't you?"

"Would you like your every sweet memory back?" Murdoc inquires. "Restless days, waiting for the phone to ring? Nights spent in sleepless fear of who might happen by to liven up your life?"

"What'd you do to them, huh? My partners, where are they?"

Murdoc only smirks by way of reply, and Mac goes for him in absolute rage- but his body doesn't seem to be working right, and when his hands finally make contact they turn limp, useless, transparent-

He jolts out of the dream, at last. By dint of falling off their narrow sofa with a thump.

"Sheesh."

"Go back to sleep," Tara soothes him. "This isn't your watch."

"Didn't really mean to wake up in the first place," he says automatically. On another day, he might seek a little comfort from her, talk about the hard-won vein of memory he's delving; but not tonight. Not with their guests looking on like this, it's too vulnerable a situation.

(It wouldn't have occurred to him to interpret their three-way as familial, until the contrast had made it plain. Having this assassin around really cramps their style.)

"I used to recommend camomile tea, with lots of honey," Jack says from the top bunk. "Whenever you had nightmares before- not that you ever actually listened to me. Tough old Phoenix spy who insisted he didn't need any kind of help, you got sorta cross about it. But it always worked for me, when I was having flashbacks to Wisconsin and my Uncle Nelson-"

"I- you- Jack Dalton," MacGyver says, letting the name roll out with slow and curious fascination.

Jack looks at him eagerly. "Remembering something?"

"Aw. No. Never mind, but I'll try this tea thing you mentioned."

Somewhat to his surprise, it works.

XXXXXXXXXX

"I don't like this," Jules says, checking over his gun for the twelfth time that morning.

An old abandoned factory, which Murdoc and MacGyver had entered alone (over considerable protest, but the one had insisted and the other acquiesced.)

"Of course not," Tara says. "We're meant to be looking out for each other, and he's wandered off somewhere they could shoot him into confetti without us ever knowing. When this is all over, we're going to need a nice long talk about his abandonment issues."

"Assuming that he's still around to talk to."

"Between him and that pasty-faced assassin, you think that it's our Mac who'll be going down? I don't see it."

"I don't think about these things. I just wait until the shooting starts."

"Then wait. Normally you're more patient than this."

"Normally we know what's what. If he's not out by eleven, I vote we go in after him, whether he wants the help or not."

"Done."

XXXXXXXXXX

"This the best you've got?"

The factory's turned out to be a training course of sorts, halfway between a gym and an obstacle course. For the exclusive use of HIT personnel, Murdoc's explained, while clocking his progress with an elaborate Victorian pocket watch.

Kids stuff. He's done well enough here by any usual metric, and there's no point pushing himself any harder until he knows what's what. (Sometimes he wonders if a certain undeniable laziness is a fault, or the impetus for his flair with elegantly unpredictable troubleshooting. Hard to say.)

"A formality only," Murdoc says, noting something down on a clipboard. "HIT insists on these little affairs before they'll even consider a hire. I assure you, you more than qualify."

"Is that it? Look, we've stayed out of everybody's way this long, the three of us don't have any intention of getting tied down to any specific organisation. If you've been paying any attention to my career, you ought to know that much."

"I did mention it," the assassin agrees. "But you know how bosses are."

"Sounds like a good reason for us to stay away."

"Then you don't have to interact with them," Murdoc says, uninterested. "The offer stands nonetheless. Why don't you slip into something more comfortable, my dear MacGyver?"

"Thanks, but no," he says, staring mistrustfully at the proffered garment (why does this man even know what size he takes in shirt collars?) "I'll just get it all sweaty."

"Amnesia does not eliminate bashfulness. I must make a note of that for the psychiatrists."

"I'm not bashful."

"You always used to be," Murdoc remarks, tossing the shirt aside. "Glad to hear that it's a remediable fault. Now, look. Your loyalty index is off the charts, everybody knows that, but I do rather want to know who you're placing your trust in just at present. Besides those two loveable- persons, waiting for you outside."

"Nobody else," MacGyver says, easily enough. "What's your point?"

"Oh, just one other formality. Should you ever decided you wanted to join HIT, they'd want a verifiable killing on your hands. And since we have a victim right here, might as well take care of that so you're all done and dusted."

"Who?"

Murdoc grins, and pulls a lever. A panel in the high factory roof slides aside, and a heavy mesh net descends, stopping about fifteen feet off the ground.

"Help!" Jack Dalton wails. "Mac, get me outta here!"

"No more hand-to-mouth existence in a battered caravan," Murdoc says. "HIT's really quite marvellous, from the benefits perspective. Private Swiss bank accounts all arranged, your pick of jobs, unsurpassed medical care- of course, you can't say much for the exit bonus, but even the best run organisations will have their little prejudices. You'd go far, MacGyver. Especially with me around to help you out."

"And all I gotta do is kill him," MacGyver says, studying the figure. Jack's practically blubbering now, thrashing against his bonds with a desperation that looks distinctly painful. "Huh."

"So. Do tell me what you think."

"I think I'll change my shirt after all." He starts undoing buttons, with casual indifference. "So after this, what? Have I got to sit around signing a lot of paperwork, or do we go out on the town and celebrate with a couple of bottles of champagne?"

"You've taken up spirits? Tut, tut, MacGyver, you never used to indulge."

"Bet I wouldn't have stripped in front of you either, goin' by what you say about bashfulness. D'you have to drool like that?"

"I am doing no such thing," Murdoc says, watching him with pleasure. "Merely observing, which is the prerogative of any competent- aggghh!"

Result of a damp shirt whipped in the face, and a follow up punch. "Oldest trick in the book, Murdoc," MacGyver says, trussing him with the long-suffering garment. "You really fell for that? C'mon, that was sloppy and you know it."

"They said you were different now," Murdoc says, sulkily. "That you had no problem with death any more- what happened? Was the amnesia just a ruse, have you been yourself this whole time-"

"You're overthinking it. Way I see it, you're just a guy who spent a lot of time trying to kill me. Why would I trust a word that comes out of your mouth? Plus, Tara and Jules don't like you. Plus," MacGyver says, pulling out one of his knives and letting it stray down to a tender spot. "You kinda insulted me. What kind of test is that, killing a helpless guy?"

"You failed the preliminary," Murdoc says in exasperation. "The real test was going to be killing me."

"Figures," MacGyver says, stuffing a shirt cuff in the assassin's mouth. "Hey, Jack? You okay up there?"

"Feel free to pretend I'm not here! Carry on trying to kill each other down there, just don't get me involved!"

"Who said anything about trying?" MacGyver calls, raising the knife; and for a moment there is perfect silence. "I don't see anything to stop me."

"Don't," Jack says, suddenly very weary. "Mac, I know you want to, I know there's every reason in the world for you to do it, but- can you at least let me out first? I really don't want to watch."

"You squeamish or something, kemosabe?"

"Not exactly, I just don't want to see my best friend like this- hey! That's my catch phrase!"

"I know. Just like you used to say back in Mission City, remember? Cos I finally did," MacGyver says, grinning up at him. "My memory's pretty spotty after Minnesota, but I'm better with childhood stuff- and how you were right there in the middle of it. Pulling pranks and driving everybody crazy."

"Wait, so that's all you can remember? That's a shame. All those backpacking trips across Europe we were always talking about, we actually did them! It was great! And then Mike went in for botany, and of course I became a pilot like I always wanted, and you...well, you're screwy as ever, Mac. Always were, though."

"Guess I'll look forward to hearing all about it, then."

"Okay, will do. So there's just one more thing."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Get me down already, what d'you think?" Jack bellows.

"Oh, yeah! Hang on, I'll get right on it…"


End file.
